Farewell
by Phoenix.G.Fawkes
Summary: Charles Deveaux receives one last visit from an old friend before he parts.


**Disclaimer:** Heroes belongs to Tim Kring

**Character:** Charles Deveaux

**Spoilers:** All season one.

**Prompt:** 03. Dream. Written for heroes50.

**Summary:** Charles Deveaux receives one last visit from an old friend before he parts.

Music: Anywhere – Evanescence

**Farewell**

When Charles Devaux opened his eyes, _he_ was sitting beside his bed looking pretty much like he remembered him: the perfectly ironed dark suit, the silky tie, even the glass of scotch in his hand was the same one from the last time Charles'd seen him. Which should have been odd, considering he had spent the last six months buried under ground.

'Good afternoon, Charles' he said in the familiar, low drawl. 'How have you been?'

'Dying' was his short reply. No need to hide the obvious.

He nodded, looking pensive. Charles thought there should have been something different in his appearance, a sign of what had happened to him. It wasn't like he had expected to see blood in his cuffs or a skull instead of his head, but he still looked too normal, too unfazed by death. But perhaps it was too be expected. Of all of them, he had been the only one who had never been afraid of death; as a matter of fact, Charles suspected he had always been a bit enamored with it and the only reason he'd resisted its call for so long was the love he felt for his wife.

'I didn't exactly expect to see you here of all people,' Charles admitted after a moment. His friend gave him a weary smile he was rather familiar with.

'You called me, didn't you?'

'Ah,' replied Charles, suddenly comprehending. 'It's one of those dreams.'

The man nodded again.

'Yeah, one of those.'

Charles looked around, trying not to move his stiff neck. The last rays of sunset poured through the open glass, a gentle breeze willowing the curtains. He knew that Manhattan could be seen from that window in all its glory, if only he could rise from bed and walk towards it. But those days were over. This bedroom and this mattress were his entire world now and he would never see his beloved city again. Perhaps it was for the best. He didn't think that he could have looked at the place he'd called home for so long, knowing it would be forever gone soon.

'So you have accepted that the explosion will happen.'

Charles looked at his friend, who sat there as calm as always. Or as calm as he always was when he didn't have one of his 'incidents'.

'I'll tell you what I told Angela.' Even in a dream, it was surprising the effort it took him to push air through his lungs and form the words. 'I don't think this is the best way. Destruction can't lead to peace, it never has, it never will.' He sighed. 'But what would I know? I'm not the one with precognition. That was you.'

Which was what killed him in the end when everything else – the pills, the noose, the razors – had failed. He didn't say it outloud, though. He didn't have to.

'Perhaps,' his friend conceded. 'But your instincts were always dead on, even more so than Austin's or even Angie's. If you think the explosion must be stopped –'

'It doesn't matter what I think, not anymore,' Charles interrupted him, feeling suddenly very old and tired. 'Either way I won't be here long enough to try to stop it.'

'You don't need to be.'

Charles frowned. 'What's that supposed to mean?'

The man merely shrugged, taking a sip of scotch and savouring it before putting his glass down.

'All I'm saying,' he replied, his eyes fixed on the amber contents of his glass, which captured a sparkle of golden light when he tilted it in his hands, 'is that there are other ways. There are other people who can carry out what we left unfinished.'

'Like your son?'

The man suddenly looked confused. 'Which one...? Oh, you must mean Nathan. Everybody always means Nathan.'

'Linderman and Angela believe he is the one,' Charles explained. 'He's who'll lead humankind through the change that'll come.'

The man nodded once, but Charles doubted he heard anything he'd said. He tilted his head to one side, still eying the contents of his glass.

'Did you know he had a case against me? Well, not me, it was against Austin, but in the end it was all the same, wasn't it? If he went down so would have I.'

'I didn't know that,' Charles admitted. He did not feel very surprised, though. Like father, like son.

'Yeah, he was all ready to go against me and Austin. He found it rather amusing, you know. Austin, I mean. He said the boy had spirit.'

Of course Linderman would say that. That was the way he'd always been. He wondered, though, whether Angela would have found it equally amusing. But this wasn't about neither her nor Linderman.

'And how did _you_ find it, Arthur?'

Charles looked at him intently. He hesitated, apparently trying to put his thoughts in order.

'I don't know,' he admitted. 'I don't remember. It used to be crystal cear, but now all my memories have blurred together. As though it had all happened to somebody else in another life. Do you understand what I mean?'

Charles didn't bother telling him that it had actually happened to someone else, as the man sitting beside his bed was merely a reflection, a shadow formed by his own memories of his deceased friend.

'I guess I was... I don't know. Proud, maybe.' A shadow of wistfulness clouded Arthur's eyes. 'I wish... I wish I could remember, but it's all bits and pieces now, you know? Like an incomplete puzzle.' He waved a hand, closing his eyes as though he were concentrating to remember. 'I think I felt proud, like when he decided to try for the DA office instead of joining the firm, but I'm not sure. I'm not sure that I told him, either.' His expression turned into confusion. 'Shoud have I?'

There were many things, in Charles' humble opinion, that his friend should have told his son – both his sons – before leaving them behind. Alas, it was too late for that now and there was no point in stressing a man who had come back from the dead just for a friendly chat.

'He must have known, Arthur,' he said instead. 'Nathan was always bright.'

Arthur considered this for a moment, then he nodded gravely and perhaps, just the tiniest bit relieved. 'You're right, Nathan was always the smart one. Linderman did well in picking him for what's to come.'

However, even as he said so a frown formed on Arthur's forehead and his eyes sought Charles. He was surprised to see all confusion gone from them. No shadows obscured them anymore; instead, there was an intensity to his gaze that reminded Charles of the formidable lawyer his friend had once been, always able to bore holes into peope's lies until the truth surfaced. He'd missed that intensity in the later years, when his gift had turned into a burden his shoulders could no longer bear.

'You don't think Nathan is the right one, though, do you?'

Charles sighed. Nathan Petrelli had been groomed to be a leader, to be strong in the face of adversity, even harsh if it came down to it. He had inheritated many gifts from his parents – he had his mother's common sense, his father's sharpness, her strength and his intensity. But he was sorely lacking in aspects that Charles considered essential. Nathan might have been raised to lead, but not to grow close to those he would command; he might have been taught to make his own decisions, but not the conviction to truly back them up. He didn't have the ability to believe in what was beyond his comprehension, he had neither faith nor hope. How could he carry on their legacy if he didn't believe in destiny, in what could not be proved and measured? How would he lead if he didn't trust, how woud he save the world when he had never learnt to care for the people he was supposed to help?

'No, Nathan is not the brother I would have chosen. I – '

He fell silent at the sound of the door creaking open and his eyes widened when he saw a familiar face in the doorway, a face half-obscured by dark hair and lit up with a warm smile.

'Hi, Charles. Didn't expect to find you awake.'

Charles frowned and looked sideways, where his friend still sat motionless, an expression of mild curiosity on his face. How could he be awake?

But the boy – not, not a boy anymore – walking towards his bed was corporeal and breathing, nothing dreamlike in his movements. _Odd_, he thought, but he had lived long enough not to feel very surprised by anything.

'Charles, there's something I need to tell you,' he said as he checked his vitals, excitement ringing in his voice, eyes sparkling with hope and expectation. Charles smiled and he found that the muscles of his face did not feel so tight and stiff when the young man was around, as though an aura of charged energy brought life to all what surrounded him.

'Tell me, Peter.'

As the young man spoke of destiny and change, of a calling and a greater purpouse, Charles could hear over his words a distant echo of another man's voice, a man whose eyes and passion had been very similar, who had also spoken of saving the world instead of healing one person at a time. A man bent by the pass of time, by sorrow and hopelessness, a man whose shadow now sat beside him.

'And I'm so, so glad you're awake, Charles, because I wanted to tell you before anyone else,' he said, his eyes alight and warm. 'You understand. You're probably the only one who does.' A tender smile curved his lips as he clasped an old, wrinkled hand between his own. 'You're the only one who's ever believed in me.'

Charles' heart clenched at those words and with a pang he wondered if his own child would ever say those words to a stranger, if he would have the same regrets the ghost beside him felt.

No, he knew that wouldn't be the case. Simone had always been his sunshine, his moonlight, and he had never been afraid to let her know, to let her feel his love so she would wrap herself with it, so it would keep her warm and safe when he was long gone. His precious little girl, even after all these years; his special, unique daughter, even though destiny and evolution had forgotten her. She would know Charles had loved her, she would know he had been proud and happy to be called her father.

He looked into Peter's shinning eyes, and he saw in them what he had talked Angela about all those months ago, The spark, the fire of those who have felt destiny's call was ablaze in them, and would burn him until he answered it.

'It was never a matter of believing, Peter,' he said, his voice hoarse and with the barest tremor. 'It could always be seen in your eyes, boy.'

Peter smiled and for a moment it felt like the sun was rising in the horizon instead of setting, it felt like a summertime breeze had swept away October's coldness.

'Thanks, Charles.'

And with a squeeze on his hand and one last blinding smile, Peter disappeared through the doorway, taking most of the light and warmth with him. Charles sighed, knowing it would be the last time he ever saw the young man he had learnt to think of as a son.

'No, it won't,' a voice was heard on his right, and he woud have started if his muscles had cooperated. He had forgotten Arthur entirely.

There was a pensive look in his eyes, an absent air about him that Charles could recognize.

'You will see him again,' he said, his voice soft, almost a whisper. 'Perhaps not like this, but you'll see him one more time before you go.'

Charles eyed him warily.

'So Death has not robbed you of your ability.'

'No, it hasn't, sadly.' He tilted his head to one side, his voice sounding as though it came from far away. 'Would you like me to tell you how it will be? How will you die, what your funneral'll be like? Would you like me to tell you about Simone's fate, about the explosion?'

'No,' Charles said firmly. There was no point in worrying about things he could not change, and his friend's predictions had never brought anything but sorrow. He preferred to leave in peace, as selfish as it might sound. He had fought for many years, struggling to make this world a better place. Whether he had accompished anything remained to be seen, but now the time to rest had come.

'Will you be here?' he asked, instead. 'Will you be here when I go?'

His friend placed his glass on the bedside table and took one of his hands between his own, not unlike his youngest son had done a moment ago.

'What are friends for?'

Charles gave him a worn-out smile.

'Thank you.'

And both men remained in silence, as shadows became longer, as the sun abandoned the horizon and night fell around them, covering their beloved city in a blanket of darkness.


End file.
